“Oh, certainly; right enough,” rejoined the rebuked inquirer; “I only asked because it seems a little odd that an officer of your army should have left it to take service in ours.”
“If I knew anything to the fellaw’s qwedit,” continued the Guardsman, “I should be most happy to communicate it. Unfawtunately, I don’t. Quite the contwawy!”
Maynard’s muscles—especially those of his dexter arm—were becoming fearfully contracted. It wanted but little to draw him into the conversation. One more such remark would be sufficient; and unfortunately for himself, Mr Swinton made it.
“The twuth is, gentlemen,” said he, the drink perhaps having deprived him of his customary caution—“the twuth is, that Mr Ensign Maynard—or Captain Maynard, as I believe he now styles himself—was kicked out of the Bwitish service. Such was the report, though I won’t be wesponsible for its twuth.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Maynard, suddenly pulling off his kid glove, and drawing it sharply across his traducer’s cheek. “A lie, Dick Swinton! And if not responsible for originating it, as you say you shall be for giving it circulation. There never was such a report, and you know it, scoundrel!”
Swinton’s cheek turned white as the glove that had smitten it; but it was the pallor of fear rather than anger.
“Aw—indeed! you there, Mr Maynard! Well—well; I’m sure—you say it’s not twue. And you’ve called me a scoundwell! And yaw stwuck me with yaw glove?”
“I shall repeat the word and the blow. I shall spit in your face, if you don’t retract!”
“Wetwact!”